The End of an Era
by Thalia Kendall
Summary: The war against Voldemort was won at a terrible price, and five years after its final battle, the last remaining Marauder, on the eve of his execution, speaks to Harry. Peter Pettigrew's betrayal was, perhaps, unjustifiable, but could it be explained?


Warning: Angst. Character Death. Violence. If I get flamed over these, I will laugh. 

A/N: Written for Greenie, inspired by a random persistent bunny that bit on after listening to "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" by Les Miserables.

Disclaimer: I'm not even a BNF, far less Rowling.

* * *

Himself at ten years ago would never have agreed to it. Back then, even with the Dark Lord wanting him dead and the Dark Mark hovering over the tents at the Quidditch World Cup, it had been simpler, and had they been alone together, the older wizard would have been unconscious and on his way to Azkaban in minutes.

It wasn't exactly charity, either. It was still far too close, and even now, five years after Voldemort's final defeat, he was still raw from the memories, and he didn't know if he could be kind again, yet. Wasn't it Remus who had wryly said that disillusionment was permanent, back before Remus had been found in the Shrieking Shack, eyes wide open and unseeing, the skin of his throat burned and blistered under the cruelly-gleaming silver chain that had choked him to death?

Even now, Harry felt the bitter bile rising in his throat as he stared at the other man-- older, with bruise-purple puffs under his small, sunken eyes. An enemy and a traitor. A connection to the past. The silver hand was gone now, as was most of his hair and one of his ears. The face, which had shown vivid terror in his memory, was weary but almost peaceful.

Neither of them spoke for the first ten minutes. Harry was remembering all of the others-- Justin Finch-Fletchley and Susan Bones, Parvati Patil and Colin Creevey... Neville was in St. Mungo's, held in a magical stasis while the mediwizards worked to repair five broken ribs and several punctured internal organs. He had been hit with a hurling hex that shot him across the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch-- and it had been the wizard before him who had hit the goal post with a cushioning charm right as Neville had slammed into it.

Peter Pettigrew had saved his friend's life.

Pettigrew had been captured at last by a cunning spell by Professor Dumbledore himself-- and remained even now in chains that were enchanted to hold him-- no matter what form he took. They hung around his thin, dirty ankles, gleaming dull gold in the waning sunlight and clinking with each unsteady, shuffling step Pettigrew took.

He wouldn't be walking for long, either. Tomorrow was the sentencing day, and it was Dumbledore who had suggested the Wizengamot grant the Death Eater's request for an afternoon to speak to Harry.

So they sat in The Three Broomsticks, and Madame Rosmerta had set down two butterbeers, the one for Peter slammed down viciously before she'd left, tight-lipped, heels clicking sharply on the floorboards. With his one good hand, Peter picked up the bottle, taking a slow sip of the golden fluid, and gazed sadly at Harry.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this."

The words jolted Harry out of his dark, tempestuous thoughts, and Lily's green eyes narrowed at the older wizard. "It IS like this... due to YOUR choices," he snapped.

Pettigrew's nose quivered like a fearful rodent's, and the twitch angered Harry. "YOU were the one who sent them to their deaths, you know. You betrayed them."

"I was only trying to be like them."

This wasn't the explanation that Harry had expected, and he masked his surprise with thinned lips and crossed arms. "THEY did not become Death Eaters," he told Pettigrew in a severe tone, raising a proud, stubborn chin identical to James'. "You chose to betray them."

"I chose to live, stronger than before, rather than to die weak," Pettigrew muttered. The words stumbled over each other, and the last word was spoken with a slight squeak. "I would have been nothing but a pawn. They knew it as well as I did."

"So you sent them to their deaths for power," Harry remarked. The hands on the table clenched around the butterbeer bottle, the mannerism like Sirius' when he was angry at his family. "You would have done well in Slytherin."

Pettigrew did flinch at that. For several moments, he remained silent, and drops of golden butterbeer fell from the rim of the bottle as his hand shook unsteadily. "I did not want to be the last Marauder."

"But you sent my parents to their deaths," Harry accused. "You sent my father-- one of your best friends-- to his doom."

"It couldn't be undone," Pettigrew whispered, his chain clinking restlessly like bells as he trembled. "I was afraid-- mad with terror."

"And you still went through with what you did," Harry started accusingly, before pausing again. Wasn't it Neville-- who was alive because of HIM-- the one who had proven to him that bravery wasn't about having no fear?

"Why did you save Neville?"

Pettigrew's head drooped lower, as though wilting, and for several minutes, he neither spoke nor moved. Harry wondered if the soul was already gone-- even before the sentencing, but when the older man looked up, his face was wistful, and to his own disgust, Harry could almost see a remnant of the innocent young boy that his father and Sirius had taken under their wings.

"An oft-ignored friend who didn't quite have the same brilliance and fire," the voice, so nervous and jittery and squeaky before, was low and hoarse now. Peter Pettigrew wasn't any different now from his friends-- battered and broken, awaiting the inevitable. "But Neville Longbottom will be more than I ever was."

Harry suddenly remembered a cold winter's day, back in his third year, and a dark tale overheard from underneath an invisibility cloak. And how he had shaken with rage, imagining a sneering dark-haired wizard facing a round-faced young man who looked like Neville Longbottom.

"Neville's in St. Mungo's," he said harshly. "That spell that Bellatrix Lestrange cast at him could keep him there for years. His future is up in the air."

"But his spirit isn't," Pettigrew concluded. The dull, almost colourless eyes looked about the empty pub. He took another sip of the butterbeer, and sighed. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

He'd said the same thing a few moments ago, but this time, Harry didn't snap anything in return.

* * *

The Aurors returned ten minutes later, to take Pettigrew back to Azkaban. Rosmerta stalked back into her pub, turquoise high heels clicking, and threw the half-full bottle that Peter Pettigrew had been drinking out of into a rubbish bin with unnecessary force. Tonks had whispered to him, once upon a time, back when she still had the heart and good cheer to change her hair colour every few minutes, that Rosmerta and Sirius had been lovers in school... back when the pub wasn't empty and silent, and the seats at the table where he sat had been filled with laughing, careless school boys who lived for each other.

His mother would come through that same door where Peter Pettigrew had just been led out, and his father would abruptly stop laughing, turning slightly pink in the face as he tried futilely to straighten his hair. His mother would roll her eyes and turn away, but not before giving him a smile.

And tomorrow, it would really be all over.

At five o'clock in the afternoon the next day, Harry Potter watched with a set face as a towering Dementor, exhaling ice and fear, pulled back its ragged hood with a rotting hand and lowered its face to Peter Pettigrew's equally set one. It was over in a moment, and then Pettigrew fell to the ground. His eyes were black, like dark, bottomless holes. No more nervous twitch or squeaky voice. It was done, and Harry didn't have a word to say as he left the prison flanked by Dumbledore and a shaking, brave-faced Lisa Turpin, his fiancee.

He set the yellowed parchment over on top of the stone foundation of the house that once stood in Godric's Hollow that night, and took out his wand. A whispered spell, and it caught on fire. Harry watched silently as the golden flames licked over the names of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs-- and didn't take his gaze away until it had been reduced to ash.

It was the end of an era that had claimed them all.


End file.
